“Wait, wait.”She waves me down.“I keep forgetting.Take this with you.”She quickly slips into the back room and comes out holding a large envelope similar to the one Lou gave me yesterday.“I know we joke around, but I know it’s not easy.I care about you, Ames, and this,” she says, handing over the thick envelope, “is proof that the community cares, too.This neighborhood loves this place and the slightlylocowoman running it.”
The sheer thickness of the envelope in my hands speaks volumes.
I meet Helen’s gaze, hoping my smile conveys the gratitude I can’t quite articulate past the sudden pressure in my chest.“This means a lot to me.”My voice comes out a little rough.“Thank you.”
Helen’s features soften with genuine warmth.“No, thank you for not giving up on this place.On me.”
I look down at the envelope again, the weight of it growing in my hands.It’s not just signatures.
It’s Helen, depending on this job.
It’s Lou, spending his days reading by the window.
I’m not just fighting for my dream.I’m fighting for them.
This place is their sanctuary just as much as it is mine.
Clutching the envelope closer to my chest, I look up at Helen’s earnest face, determination firming my resolve.“I won’t let him take this place from us,” I promise.
Helen nods, eyes shining with pride.“I believe in you, Ames.One million percent.”Her gaze sweeps down my striped pajamas, and her lips twitch into a smirk.“But these marshmallow pajamas of yours?I’m not so sure.”
A laugh bubbles up.“You really don’t like my PJs, do you?”
Helen shakes her head, gesturing vaguely at my stripes.“Can’t take you seriously in those,” she admits.“It’s really hard.”
“Okay, okay.”I start walking backward down the hallway in mock offense.“Remind me never to invite you to a slumber party.”
“¿Qué?Slumber party?”She frowns, looking genuinely perplexed.“How is it a party if everyone’s sleeping?”
“Nobody actually sleeps!”I laugh.“It’s mostly endless talking and lots of wine.”
Helen just peers at me, brow furrowed, shaking her head slowly.
“Anyway, I’m going to change,” I say with a final smirk over my shoulder before disappearing into my office-turned-closet.
Pushing the door open, the sight of the couch, my bed lately, and the general cramped chaos greets me.But instead of feeling despair, the room seems charged with purpose now.
I cross over to my desk, where Lou’s envelope sits beside my computer, and place Helen’s directly on top of it.The two together form a substantial pile.My fingers linger on the stack.
Hope and expectation.
So many people are counting on this place… counting on me.
The thought feels less like a burden and more like fuel.
Holding on to this newfound resilience, I thoughtlessly grab the same black V-neck sweater and jeans I wore yesterday.Not in the mood for laces today, I dig around for my comfy black ballerina flats.
A few minutes later, after a brisk wash and hair taming in the staff washroom, I emerge transformed from pajama-clad couch-surfer to professional café owner.
I throw myself into the morning rush.
Taking orders, steaming milk, managing the flow.Each task is a deliberate choice to focus on what I can control.A shield against the gnawing worry for what I can’t.
For whole minutes at a time, it works.I’m just the owner of Maddy’s Place, serving the community I’m fighting for.
But then a lull will hit between customers, and the thought of my phone, silent in my back pocket, surfaces like a splinter.My hand drifts toward it, a nervous tic I have to consciously stop.
A quick, furtive glance at the screen confirms it.
